An echo bounces between the walls of the quiet room, reverberating into the corners, reaching shadows where even the light dares not linger. It is here, in this state of peace, that I sit, the silence wrapping around like a familiar embrace, but something stirs...
The phone sits on the table, an island in a sea of solitude, waiting. It does not know the weight of its presence, nor does it understand the void it fills. Once—a call, once a voice— now just a memory, a whisper lost to time.
The wind plays a distant melody, and I think of constellations drawn with fingers on fogged glass, patterns that tell stories of journeys and dreams. I clutch these thoughts as one might hold sand—futile, I know, as it slips away between fingers, grains scattering into the vastness.
In moments like these, I hear your voice—not the sound, but the way it filled the silence, the promise of a tomorrow that echoes through the room like a forgotten lullaby. The call— always a silent call, unanswered and yet somehow always present.
Perhaps the stars above know the answer, each pinprick a question mark in the fabric of sky. Or perhaps it is the universe itself, a vast and endless phone call waiting to be answered.
Chase the Echo